The soldier dropped the hands which had shaded his face. He gazed long and earnestly at the white sails of the wicked-looking craft, which was now fast creeping up with them. His look was one of high determination and courage.
“There can be but one way, Captain Weber. Haul your brig up to her proper course, arm your crew, load your guns, and let us meet yonder pirate. We cannot fly. Your powder will be a last resource.”
“And you, gentlemen,” inquired the captain, “are of the same advice?”
“There can be no other course,” was the reply.
“Mr Lowe, send the crew aft, one and all.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the mate, cheerily.
The captain paced his quarter-deck moodily and in silence. Dom Maxara went below, while Hughes and the missionary looked gloomily over the ocean.
“My lads,” said the captain, “yonder schooner is a pirate. For months her people have plundered and massacred inoffensive ships and their crews. They are the same Malays we met in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and we purged the old barky’s deck of the rapscallions. We have lost five of ours, but their death was avenged. Yonder blackguard comes with murder and piracy in his hold. He has a full cargo of both, but so long as Andrew Weber lives, this brig shall never be his. We will fight to the last man, and that last man, mark me my lads well, that last man, or boy, no matter which, fires the powder in the magazine!”
A loud cheer burst from the crew.
“And now, my lads, to your arms! Mr Lowe, in with the studding-sails, take a pull at the lee sheets and braces, starboard you may, bring her head west-south-west!”